


Letting Go

by alice_day



Series: A Year in the Life [1]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 05:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18329198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alice_day/pseuds/alice_day
Summary: A different type of Brillows story, this takes place after 9.11 GRAVE SHIFT and a very rough case that requires the medicinal application of Balvenie and some honesty. First entry in A YEAR IN THE LIFE.





	Letting Go

"Hodges said _what_?"

Catherine had to laugh. "He said he didn't understand why we never went out together. On a date."

The only was she could describe Jim Brass's expression was ... congested. "I'm gonna kill him," the Homicide captain decided. "Slowly, and with great attention to detail."

She shook her head, still smiling. "He didn't mean anything by it. In Hodges's weird little world, we work together, we're single parents, and we both have kids who've taken ten years off our lives. Apparently that means we're supposed to fall into each other's arms and live happily ever after."

Brass considered it. "I'm still gonna kill him."

"Fine, but wait until we find someone else who can run Trace."

"Oh, all right." Rolling his eyes, he leaned back in the office chair across from her desk and sighed. "The sacrifices I make for you CSIs."

She relaxed in her own chair, giving him her best sunburst smile. "You only make sacrifices for me, Jim, and you do it because ya love me," she said in her best Jersey accent.

"Ooh." His eyes twinkled, and he slapped his hand over his heart. "Ya got me, toots. Now be a dear and pour this tired old cop some more Scotch."

She picked up the clear bottle from her open file drawer, sloshing the remaining half-inch of amber fluid. "That's all she wrote. Split it with you?"

"Works for me." He held out his glass while she poured. "So when did you start keeping Scotch in your office?"

"When did I _not_ keep Scotch in my office?" she said dryly. "You and Grissom never invited me to your little boys' night pow-wows, so I had to buy my own bottle."

That wasn't true, of course. She'd brought the bottle in after Warrick--

_Baby, no. You promised me you wouldn't go there anymore._

\--after Nick and Jim brought in McKeen, she amended.   Sometimes, she just needed a sip to help her unwind after a bad night. Or when she imagined she could hear Warrick giving her advice, like tonight.

_You don't need that stuff, Cath. I don't want you buying another bottle after tonight, you hear me?_

Although she was damned if she'd tell anyone about hearing him. That was just -- crazy talk.

Brass winced. "Sorry. The next time we get a shift like this, the drinks are on me."

She swirled the dregs of Scotch in her glass. "Jim, if you don't mind, I really don't want to think about getting another shift like this," she said softly.

Chastened, he nodded.

The third dead teenager had been found around 8:00 PM, arms tied behind her back with plastic binders like the other two before her. Tortured like the other two. Raped and mutilated like the other two. All of them blonde, blue-eyed, and runaways, lost little girls working the Strip for drug money. Easy pickings for a monster who gutted them and tossed them away like trash.

A week ago Catherine had collected evidence from the first girl's body, and saw the red half moons gouged into the girl's palms. It meant the girl had been alive when her killer took a knife to her and leisurely sliced into her abdomen. She'd dug her nails into her own palms, dying in sheer agony.

The CSI glanced up, hating her brain for imprinting Lindsey's face over the dead girl's, and saw Brass staring at the vic. A muscle jumped in his jaw. After years of working together, she recognized the final warning sign that signaled the storm of a pissed-off Jim Brass out for blood.

His eyes met hers, and locked on. "I _want_ this sonofabitch, Cath," he said softly.

"I know. I want him too, Jim," she said, swiping the back of a gloved hand across her forehead. She knew about Ellie Brass and her career as a Hollywood hooker. Brass saw the same thing Catherine did; his child's face on a slaughtered runaway prostitute. "We'll find the bastard."

"Damn right we will."

But the sonofabitch delivered a second, and then a third body before they finally isolated a partial on the second victim's eyeball, of all places. IAFIS found a match, one Victor Carson, currently working as a nondenominational minister at various wedding chapels. Brass rounded up the uniforms and hit every chapel on the Strip until they found Carlson, wearing a Liberace costume and about to link an Army private and his pregnant girlfriend in the bonds of holy matrimony. The sonofabitch pulled out the Bowie knife he'd used on his victims and took the girlfriend as a hostage, howling that God had told him to clean "the human filth" from the streets.

Nick told her the story later on, how poor Langston quite literally stumbled into the scene, boggling in surprise at the Liberace impersonator and his screaming human shield. Grabbing the distraction, Brass jinked to the side and shot Carlson twice in the upper chest. According to the report from the Desert Palms ICU, the sonofabitch was going to live, at least until he had a needle stuck in his arm by the state of Nevada for carving three girls up like a Sunday roast.

After the mountain of paperwork necessary after shooting a perp, plus all the new evidence that had to be bagged and tagged for the trial, it was almost the end of shift when Brass wandered into her office looking haggard. "I don't suppose you have anything to drink?" he asked. "I polished off the last of my Scotch with Gil before he left."

That's when Catherine had opened her desk drawer and pulled out a bottle. There was still enough amber liquid for a few healthy shots. "Balvenie?"

"Ah, Ms. Willows, I knew there was a reason why I loved you." With a palpable look of relief, the Homicide captain excused himself, and returned in a few minutes bearing two lead crystal rock glasses.

"These were a parting gift from the Bug Lord himself," he explained, settling back with his Scotch. "I think he found my selection of glassware tacky."

Catherine grinned. "Wonder if he's in Costa Rica yet?"

"He should be. Wonder if he found Sara yet."

"He should have."

Brass waggled his eyebrows in a decent Groucho Marx impression. "Wonder what they're doing?"

That made her laugh. "Don't be a perv, Jim."

He waved the glass. "Trust me, if I was a perv, I would've stayed in Vice. Could've gotten paid to flirt with lots of pretty ladies. Of course, they all charged by the hour, but hey, who's counting?"

"Heh. At least you'd be flirting with someone," she joked. And then, it just seemed to tumble out: "God knows you don't do it with me anymore."

Some of the good humor drained out of the captain's face, replaced just a second too late by a cheerful smile. "Yeah, well, you know how it goes," he said lightly.

_Aw, hell. I knew it._

Catherine paused. She'd known Jim Brass for years; the last time Eddie tried to rough her up, Brass offered to toss him in a cell with the biggest, meanest inmate he could find. He was one of the few truly decent guys she knew in Vegas, and the only one she could rely on now that Warrick and Sam were dead, and Grissom was somewhere in Central America hunting the elusive Sara Sidle. "So why _did_ you stop flirting with me?" she asked, curious.

His eyebrows went up. "Uh. _Wow._ Where did that come from?"

"I dunno." She didn't, but now that she'd asked she wanted an answer. "Come on, Jim, humor me. We used to flirt all the time, but then you just stopped. Did I do something to piss you off?"

"No. It's just..." He sat back in the chair, bulldog lip wrinkling.

Catherine considered him over the rim of her glass. She'd seen Brass in a hundred different moods; the hard-ass Homicide captain dragging information out of a suspect, the concerned dad worried about his daughter dying on the streets, the buddy with a quip for everything. And yes, the flirt.

This was a Jim Brass she didn't see very often; a Brass who didn't know what to say.

He shook his head. "Okay, this is complicated, so bear with me," he murmured. "I -- yeah, I liked flirting with you. It was fun because we were just playing around -- I'd mouth off, you'd shoot me down, and we'd laugh about it. No big deal." He waved the empty glass again. "And then ... I don't know. I guess I finally noticed how you acted around Rick."

It was her turn to be surprised. "How did I act?"

"You kind of lit up, you know? Sparkled. I figured there had to be something between the two of you, so I backed off." Brass gave her a crooked smile. "I gotta be honest, he lit up around you, too."

Catherine smiled. "Yeah, I know." The never-ending flirtation, as she thought of it. Five years of looks, and talk, and sparks that she swore could be seen in the dark. Even Warrick getting married didn't stop the way she felt; it just added a touch of bittersweetness, like hoarding a piece of chocolate cake only to find out that someone else got to it first. And then he got divorced, and it all came roaring back, stronger than ever.

_But I never did anything about it, did I, baby? And now it's too late._

To her dismay, Catherine realized she was tearing up. She glanced at the ceiling to hold in the telltale dampness, running a hand through her hair for extra cover. "Probably wouldn't worked, anyway," she said as briskly as she could. "We worked together, he was younger, I had Lindsey. Not to mention a whole bunch of trust issues thanks to Eddie and that bastard Chris." She picked up her glass and took a very necessary swallow. "But thanks for backing off, even though I didn't take advantage of it. That was decent of you."

Brass studied the arm of his chair, tracing the weave with a finger. With some surprise, Catherine realized he was fidgeting. "Yeah, well, I wish I could take credit for being a decent human being," he said slowly, "but that's not exactly the case, now, is it?"

His occasional bouts of self-flagellation had been getting farther and farther apart; this sudden relapse worried her. "Come on, Jim, you're a good guy--"

"No, you don't understand." The pensive Brass was gone now, replaced by someone she'd never seen before. This Brass was -- raw, vulnerable. _Frightening._

"I backed off because I chickened out, Cath," he said very simply. "Yeah, I thought you wanted Rick, but I also did it because you scared the shit out of me. You're smart, and freaking gorgeous, and so damn strong, and you don't take crap from anyone. You busted your ass to take care of Lindsey -- Christ, look what I did to Ellie. People treat their dogs better than I treated my own daughter." He shook his head. "You're better than I am, Catherine. I _know_ that. Next to you, I don't even rate. And even if," he paused, "even if you did go nuts for some reason and went out with me, I'd probably just screw it up. I know what my track record is like. And then..."

His hands jerked up, then spread, as if letting something go. "I'd lose a good friend. And I don't want to do that."

She realized her mouth was open. Belatedly, she pressed her lips together. "Jim--"

"No." He held up a hand. "You don't have to say it. We're friends. We'll always be friends. I don't need anything more, okay? It's all good."

She watched, appalled, as the hardass cop act slid back into place. Good old Jim Brass, tough as his name. Belatedly, she finally recognized the act for what it was; a suit of armor, built up year after year to protect a secret core that couldn't be let out for fear of being burned again.

_Baby, you can't hold on to me forever. I'm not there anymore. We should've taken the chance when we had it, but we didn't. Jim's a good guy. Don't let this chance pass you by, too._

Catherine took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. _Okay, baby._

"Maybe you don't need anything more," she said, almost to herself. "But what if I do?"

Putting her empty glass down, she stood up and walked to her office door, closing it. As an afterthought, she threw the lock. When she turned back to Brass, he was staring at her. She couldn't decide if he looked shocked or scared.

Or maybe it was just ... not daring to hope.

"Oh, Cath." He tried to smile, and failed miserably. "Come on, honey -- what are you doing?"

She walked back to him, kicking her shoes off before tugging his arms out of his lap and onto the chair's armrests. "I don't know," she said, sitting down on his lap. It felt strange, but good. "I won't know until I try."

His breath caught when she took his face in her hands and studied it. No, he wasn't as pretty as Chris, or Paul, or even Eddie. The hairline was definitely getting higher, and his nose looked like he'd run it into too many hockey rink barriers. And he didn't have Warrick's devilish charm or exotic looks. But he was smart, and strong, and better than he thought, and brave as all hell, and he had a voice like warm caramel, and God he smelled good.

"I never realized how nice your eyes are," she murmured, leaning in. He closed them and she kissed each lid, lingering. "And your eyebrows are cute."

His chuckle was a little ragged. "A woman complimenting my eyebrows," he muttered. "That's a first."

"Hey, I call 'em as I see 'em." She ran her thumbs across his cheekbones, savoring the texture of his skin. Lower, there was the first faint edge of his beard, just beginning to get rough at the end of the night. A memory flashed through her mind; seeing him in the parking lot after shift last summer, his tie tucked into his back pocket, dress shirt open at the throat due to the heat. She'd found herself staring at the thicket of chest hair framed by the white linen V. And for a moment she wondered what it would feel like under her fingers, against her back, her breasts. Afterwards, she'd felt slightly ashamed. This was Jim, her friend, not some fantasy toyboy.

Now, she just felt excited. _I want that, yeah._

He tilted his head back, the skin rising under her fingers as he smiled. "You're breathing harder," he murmured.

"So are you."

She felt a stirring under her right thigh. "It's not the only thing getting harder," he admitted.

Something low and pleasurable tightened in her body. "And you haven't even kissed me yet."

"God, you're right. What was I thinking?" She felt his arms slip around her waist, those large, warm hands exploring the small of her back, pulling her closer. His mouth came up to meet hers, hard. Their lips parted, clinging to each other with a ferocity that surprised her. He tasted luscious -- Scotch, a hint of toothpaste, mixed with sexy man. Their tongues dipped and swirled around each other, then his slipped along her upper teeth, moving slickly against the roof of her mouth.

At the same time, his hand slid up under her shirt with infinite gentleness, cupping her breast and teasing the now-hard nipple through the fabric of her bra. The combination of sensations was exquisite, and she moaned.

An idea popped into her head, and she hitched upward, sliding her lower body around without breaking the kiss or letting his hand off her breast, until she was straddling him. His erection rubbed against her -- _God, he's big_ \-- and she gasped at the delicious friction.

He pulled back, panting. "Wait, wait."

"What?"

"I don't want to do this." He looked down at the point where their bodies met, and groaned. "Well, _yeah_ , I want to do this. But not here."

She checked the wall clock. 9:17 AM. "Don't worry. The door's locked, the shift's over," she said, wiggling closer. "No one's going to come in--"

His hands moved to her hips, immobilizing them. "I'm not worried about that," he said, his voice low. "But I don't want to fuck you in an office chair. I want somewhere where I can take your clothes off and kiss every inch of you. I want a real bed, and privacy, and some time. And I want a place where I can make you scream my name without worrying about a bunch of uniforms breaking down the door, okay?"

"Ah." She considered it. "Yeah, you have a point."

"I thought so." He took a deep breath, gently holding her away from him. "So give me a couple of minutes to get ready for the viewing public, then we'll walk out of here like the, heh--" he glanced down, "--upstanding crime fighters we are, and head over to my place. And then ... well, we'll see what happens."

And then the never-ending flirtation would finally come to an end, as something new took its place. She felt a last spark pass through her, fading away like frost in the sunlight. Or maybe it was just a blessing.

Blinking hard, she got to her feet, waiting for Jim to stand up and straighten his clothes. He was right -- there was a time and a place for this, and end of shift in her office wasn't it. She took a deep breath, feeling a sweet sting of anticipation. In less than an hour she'd have him in her arms again, and then in her body. And as unexpected as it was, it felt _right_.

Jim and Cath. Brass and Willows. Oh, God -- _Brillows._   

She burst into giggles. Yeah, it was definitely going to be interesting.

_You go, baby. You go._

**Author's Note:**

> CSI, Jim Brass, Catherine Willows, Nick Stokes and Ray Langston belong to Anthony Zuiker and CBS -- what I do with them isn't canon. But damn, I wish it could have been.


End file.
